It is early in the morning of 17 June, 1956. Hjalmar Krekula is preparing to drive the cows out to their summer pasture. That is one of the tasks he has to perform during the summer holidays. The farms within the village are fenced in, and the cows are sent into the forest during the day to graze. In the evening they nearly always come home of their own accord, udders bulging, to be milked. But sometimes Hjalmar has to go to fetch them. They are especially difficult to bring home towards the end of summer. When they have been eating mushrooms among the trees. It can take hours to find them. Mushrooms tend to make them behave oddly.
The boys’ mother is in the kitchen, making packed lunches to put in their rucksacks.
“Does Tore have to come as well?” Hjalmar says, fastening the only three buttons left on his flannel shirt. “Can’t he stay at home with you?”
Hjalmar Krekula is eight years old, will be nine in July. Tore is six. Hjalmar would prefer to be in the forest on his own. Tore is a nuisance, following him around all the time.
“Don’t argue,” his mother says in a voice that will not tolerate contradiction.
She is spreading butter on bread for her boys. Hjalmar notices that she is spreading the butter more thickly on one of the slices. She wraps the sandwiches in newspaper, and the one with the most butter goes into Tore’s rucksack. Hjalmar makes no comment. Tore is sitting on the kitchen stool, sliding his new knife up and down in its sheath.
“Don’t play with knives,” Hjalmar says, just as he has been told not to do many times.
Tore does not seem to hear him. Their mother says nothing. She pours a little yoghourt into a small wooden flask and puts a piece of salted fish into an old flour bag. These Hjalmar will carry in his rucksack.
The family keeps only three cows, to supply their own needs. Isak Krekula, their father, runs the haulage firm, while Kerttu looks after the house and the cattle.
The boys have their rucksacks. They are wearing caps, and trousers that just cover their knees. Hjalmar’s boots are too big for him and flop around. Tore’s boots are a bit too small.
Before they have even crossed the main road, Tore cuts off a birch switch with which he pokes the cows.
“You don’t need to hit them,” Hjalmar says with annoyance. “Star is bright. She follows you if you lead the way.”
Star, the lead cow, follows Hjalmar. She has a bell attached to a leather strap round her neck. Her ears are black, and she has a black star on her forehead. Rosa and Mustikka traipse along behind. Their tails are twitching, aiming at flies. They occasionally run a few paces in order to get away from Tore and his confounded birch switch.
Hjalmar presses on. He is leading the cows to the edge of a bog a kilometre or so away. It is a good grazing spot. The sun is warm. The forest is fragrant with wild rosemary which has just come into bloom. Star trots happily after Hjalmar. She has learnt that he takes her to good grazing grounds.
Tore keeps on holding them up. He stops to poke a big branch through an anthill, back and forth, back and forth. And he feels the need to cut notches in tree trunks with his new knife. Hjalmar looks the other way. His own knife is nowhere near as sharp. One of his father’s employees has used it to scrape rust off one of the lorries. There is a big hack in the cutting edge, too big to be ground away. Tore’s knife is brand new.
Tore prattles away behind his brother and Star. Hjalmar wishes the younger boy would keep quiet. You have to keep silent in the forest. When they reach the edge of the bog, they unpack their lunches. The cows immediately start grazing. They drift further and further from the boys.
The bog is white with cloudberry flowers.
When the boys have finished eating, it is time to head for home.
They have been walking for ten minutes when they catch sight of a reindeer. It is standing absolutely still, watching them with big black eyes. The Lapps have already taken their herds up into the mountains; this is one they missed.
The boys try to sneak up on it, but it stretches its neck and sets off at a brisk trot. They hear the clippety-clop of its hooves, and then it is gone.
They try to follow it for a while, but give up after ten minutes. The reindeer is no doubt a long way away by now.
They set off for home again, but after a while Hjalmar realizes that he does not know where he is. Even so, he continues in the same direction – no doubt he will soon see the familiar rocks and clearings. But before long they come to a swamp that he has never seen before. Spindly, stunted pine trees are growing in the middle of it. Beard lichen hangs from the branches, looking burnt. Where on earth are they?
“We’re lost,” Hjalmar says to his brother. “We must retrace our steps.”
They retrace their steps. But after an hour or so, they find themselves on the edge of the same swamp.
“Let’s cross over it,” Tore says.
“Don’t be silly,” Hjalmar says.
He is worried now. Which way should they go?
They hear a cow lowing in the distance, very faintly.
“Hush,” he says to Tore, who is prattling on about something or other. “It’s Star. It’s coming from over there.”
If they can find the cows, they will be able to get home. Star will find the way as milking time approaches.
But after only a few steps, they realize that they can no longer hear any lowing. They cannot follow the sound. Neither of them is sure where it came from.
They lie down in a clearing to rest. The moss is dry and the sun is warm. They feel sleepy. Hjalmar is no longer on the verge of tears; he is just tired. He drops off to sleep. Tore’s legs twitch, and he says something in his dream.
Hjalmar is woken up by his brother shaking his arm.
“I want to go home now,” Tore whimpers. “I’m hungry.”
Hjalmar is also hungry. His stomach is rumbling. The sun is low in the sky. The forest is filled with different sounds. The heat drains away from the trees, making them crackle. The noise is almost like footsteps. An eerie sound must be a barking fox. It is chillier now, and the boys are cold.
They set off aimlessly.
After a while they come to a beck. Kneeling down, they fill the mugs they have with them. Drink until they are no longer thirsty.
Hjalmar thinks.
What if this is the same beck that flows past Iso-Junti’s farmhouse on the edge of the village?
Hjalmar had once thrown pieces of wood into the beck. They had floated off in the direction of the Kalix. So, if they follow the beck upstream, they should find themselves in the village.
Always assuming it is the same beck, of course. They could well be following one that goes somewhere else.
“Let’s go this way,” Hjalmar says to his brother.
But Tore doesn’t like being told what to do. Nobody is going to tell him which way to go. Except his father, perhaps.
“No,” he says. “Let’s go that way.”
He points in the opposite direction.
They start arguing. Tore’s opposition makes his older brother certain that following the beck upstream is the best thing to do.
Tore refuses absolutely. Hjalmar calls him a stupid brat, tells him he is being idiotic, that he must do as he is told.
